The Open Door Page 4

  She turned and looked at him, her eyes filled with intensity, as if she harbored hate for the man that brought her in from the harsh storm and offered her help. It made no sense. This woman is crazy; I never should have let her in.

  “I’m only trying to help. If you like, you can stay there while I call. Okay?”

  Dialing 911 on his cell phone, Scott felt immense pressure to get help, and get her out of his home immediately.

  One call after another, all he could manage was a busy signal or nothing at all. “I’ll try again in a few minutes, there’s no service—probably the storm.”

  Again, there was no response.

  “What’s your name? I’m Scott.”

  Her lips didn’t move, but he could hear a grumble come from within her, almost like an animal growling.

  “Excuse me, I just need to go upstairs and grab something.”

  Scott walked up the stairs while watching the unresponsive stranger stand in his doorway—paranoid she would try something at any moment. His compassion had overwhelmed his common sense, and he was regretting it. I should have never let her inside my house!

  After entering his room, Scott quickly went for the closet where he hid his .45 ACP 1911 handgun. He popped a fully loaded seven-round magazine in, and pulled the slide back, placing a round in the chamber so the gun was ready to fire. He shoved the gun in the rear of his pants, placed his shirt over the grip to conceal it, and made his way downstairs.

  “OK, I’m back! I just wanted to try the cell phone upstairs, but it didn’t work there either.”

  She didn’t believe him, he could tell by the look in her eyes. In fact, she didn’t appear intoxicated, or high, or even weakened by lack of nutrition or harsh weather; she had a look of strength and eagerness, which made Scott uncomfortable.

  “Apage humani.” The woman said.

  “Excuse me?”

  The right side of her mouth curled up, forming a half-smile.

  In a voice not proportionate to her appearance, the woman quietly mumbled something else. “Audi Satanas.”

  “I’m not understanding you. Do you speak English?”

  Again she smiled, and then Scott realized that he had seen the smile before. The man with the top hat that he had seen on two other occasions had the same smile. He wondered: why does she share the same taunting grin?

  Feeling uneasy, Scott walked back another four feet to create more distance between the foreigner and he. Her long boney finger, with jagged yellowed nail, reached out to the door—the grotesque nail pressed into the hard wood as if it were made of balsa, and she began scratching it, making an agonizingly slow scraping noise, like nails on a chalkboard.

  “Please stop,” Scott begged, as she somehow etched letters deep into the wood of his door with her fingernail.

  Quickly, and with a cracking sound, she turned her head toward Scott while still carving on his door. A smile grew on her face as her brow furrowed. She was done, and scribed in his door was the word, “Mortem.”

  “I don’t know who you are, but you need to leave. Now!”

  “Mortem!” She screamed in an unholy tone.

  Scott drew his gun and took aim at the woman’s chest.

  “Leave, or I shoot!”

  She hissed at him, like some sort of foul serpent, and then spoke, “Peto et aheram! Peto abyssus!” Her voice had changed again; it was so abysmal, that it couldn’t have possibly come from a woman, or a man for that matter. It was grossly inhuman.

  Physically Scott could easily overpower a woman, especially a woman of her stature, but there was something horribly wrong. Instinctively he knew that a greater strength, an evil lie inside this woman that he couldn’t contend with on a physical level.

  As he focused on her, waiting for any sudden movement that would give him an excuse to pull the trigger, something even more horrifying took place. The woman’s body went completely limp while still standing, resembling a puppet hanging from its master’s strings. From shoulder to elbow were parallel to the ground while her forearms dangled on their hinged joints. Her neck no longer supported the weight of her head, which was buried in her chest.

  Suddenly the woman’s body began moving around in a circular motion while maintaining its scarecrow like pose. She elevated off the ground with only her toes touching the hardwood floor entry, and her toes dragged on the floor, creating a perfect circle. After watching this for what seemed like several minutes, she stopped and slammed against the floor with her knees in a praying position. Still lifeless and limp, the body repeatedly and violently stood, then dropped to its knees. Her head and arms continued to dangle and shake from the movement—it was as if a giant hand had hold of her lifeless body at the waist, picking her up and slamming her to the ground. Again and again, her knees slammed against the floor.

  Scott looked at the indented floor where blood and flesh saturated and stuck to the lacquer. The exposed shattered bones of her knees began to break apart, and bone shards were pounded into the wood like nails.

  The kneeling stopped as the body rose off the ground; its legs together and arms outstretched in the form of a cross.

  Her head whipped back hard enough crack the spine, and her jaw seemingly disjointed itself, hanging by only skin and tendons.

  A deep routed gurgling sound erupted as the monstrosity roared and spewed black sledge from its mouth—all over the floors and walls of the living room.

  Some of the tar like substance managed to spray on Scott. The smell was obscene and nearly caused him to vomit.

  Frozen in terror beyond words, he managed to keep his gun pointed at the possessed woman, but was too petrified to pull the trigger.

  In its broken state, the demon began to laugh as if thoroughly amused with what it had done. The laugh started as a deep throaty bellow, and quickly changed to a pitchy nasally chuckle.

  Snapping out of his trance, Scott regained his senses and took careful aim with the gun. His heart pounded hard enough to hear, and his breathing became labored—it made it impossible to stand still.

  Doing the best he could to stabilize his shaking hands, Scott squeezed the trigger. Boom! The .45 caliber hollow-point blew a hole in its chest the size of a fist, causing the pale body to go completely limp and collapse to the ground.

  Watching the body intently while still holding aim with his gun, a sense of relief came over him. The body lay motionless—it didn’t breathe or twitch—there was no sign of life.

  Minutes went by. Scott didn’t dare move on the chance that it would come to, but it never did.

  He placed his gun back in his pants to free his hands so he could call 911. Terrified of police involvement, Scott nearly hung up when he received a dial tone. What will the cops think? A dead female that appears to have been beaten, then shot by my gun, and is now lying inside my home.

  There was hope that an autopsy of the black sludge and internal and external damage would show that this thing destroyed itself from the inside out, but he was being realistic; police want an open and shut case, and they have Scott holding the murder weapon. Case closed.

  The phone stopped ringing. “Hello?” There was nobody there. “Hello? Is this police dispatch?” Scott asked.

  The line was scratchy due to the weak signal brought by the storm

  “Luc—“ The line cut out. He listened closer trying to make out what the dispatcher was saying.

  “Luci—” Someone said.

  “Lucille? I’m sorry, but I’m having a hard time hearing you.”

  Taking a chance on the dispatcher hearing him, Scott clearly stated his address and told the person that he had shot an intruder.

  Then the voice came through clear: “Lucifer hostis humani generis!”

  Startled, Scott looked at the body; it still lay lifeless.

  “Mortem ad vitam! Mortem ad vitam! Mortem ad vitam!”

  The voice kept repeating the same phrase over and over.

  Scott hung up the phone and looked at the body, trying to think
of a way to get around the evil corpse that blocked his egress.

  The body was lying face down in a crumpled mess of a position. Its hair covered its entire face, so he couldn’t look for eye movement.

  A crackling sound exploded from the silence. The head began to move, sliding the black matted hair across the blood soaked floor. The head turned slowly, and continued turning causing the vertebrae in its spine to snap loudly, as if someone had stepped on an old dry tree branch.

  The head continued to turn until it faced the ceiling, its body still belly-down. With its jaw hanging loosely, it let out a deafening cry using a myriad of grotesque voices.

  Blood began to ooze from its eye-sockets, ears, mouth, and nose, while the screaming continued.

  Covering his ears did no good; the power behind the voices caused the living room window to crack, and brought Scott to his knees.

  The screaming stopped. On his knees, Scott stared at the horribly disfigured body. Then in an eerie voice he had not yet heard, it quietly spoke one word, “Scott?” And then like a sadistic clown, it began to chuckle.

  Drained of all energy, Scott fired two more shots into its skull, silencing the madness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Born on Friday the thirteenth, the number thirteen was never an unlucky number for Scott, and he never bought into silly superstitions. Raised in a home where the address is, 1300 Cape Way, seemed destiny.

  With an appetite for horror, his viewing diet consisted of mostly scary films. Never a dark child with even a hint of malice; Scott was just a child who enjoyed a good scare from time to time. Oddly, he never scared easy, so the fascination with horror was more of an outlet for a side of him rarely seen.

  Art was a talent that presented itself in his early drawings. Even in elementary school, Scott was accused of tracing the images seen in his works. Images of cartoon witches, goblins, vampires, and other various creatures of the night, flowed from his number-two pencil with ease. Eventually, Scott was able to look at paintings from his favorite fantasy artists, and sketch their every detail with perfection.

  Then there was music. Drawn to the guitar at age sixteen; Scott quickly learned his way to mastery of the fingerboard. Haunting classical pieces from the likes of Bach, Beethoven, Vivaldi and Paganini, romanced Scott into his own dark compositions. Harmonic minor would become his jewel for which to vent his emotions.

  Despite Scott’s obvious fascination with all things dark, he was happy, moral, and a firm believer in God. Never understanding his own intense interests, he never pondered the question: “Why?” Rather, Scott accepted the fact that it was one of many things that defined him. His soul is what it is, and he embraced its very essence instead of fighting it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  After years of terrifying experiences, Scott had been pushed over the edge when faced with a possessed woman—a woman whose actions were so grotesquely inhuman—there was no doubt that the supernatural existed. He had questioned and written off past experiences as hallucinations or paranoia, but Scott now knew they were all real, and he made it a priority to find out why he was chosen.

  Being at a point in his life where he worked for himself, he was able to take time off to pursue his quest for answers. After being a competitive kick-boxer for ten years, during which time he acquired several certifications in nutrition and physical fitness, Scott started up his own business. He mainly taught clients self-defense and prepared diet and fitness programs for them. Due to his expertise in the field & the national recognition this resulted in, he was also brought into existing schools and gyms for seminars.

  Conservative in nature, Scott had saved most of the money he earned by living a modest life. A small portion of his savings would now be invested into whatever equipment was needed to begin his investigation. First, Scott needed to rent or buy several wireless digital cameras, a digital audio recorder, IR thermometer, and an EMF detector for his new endeavor.

  It was a difficult decision for him to spend some of the hard earned savings for this endeavor. It was of some consolation that he was able to rent most of the necessary equipment. Being as he already owned camping gear and other items for the trip, he was able to keep expenditures to a minimum.

  Scott’s sarcastic and incredulous friend had dropped by to visit while he got ready. “Better pack plenty of clean underwear!” This was Cody Blanks—the man who always had something smart to say & was rarely serious. At twenty-nine, he was two years Scott’s junior, but you would swear he was fresh out of puberty. Scott loved the man like a brother, but could only take his company in small doses.

  Cody relentlessly cracked jokes about Scott’s desire to expose and prove that the spiritual world truly exists, but he could see right through Cody’s facade. He was frightened, hence the jokes about clean shorts, and so he pretended to not believe in the spiritual world. He didn’t want to believe. Not unlike many in today’s world, Cody would rather turn and look the opposite direction than face reality.

  The humor Cody displayed was an ill attempt to mask his true emotions: fear, concern, and intense curiosity.

  “Better yet, why don’t you buy yourself some disposables and a container of baby wipes? You’re gonna need ‘em!” Cody said, with a Cheshire grin.

  Ignoring Cody’s onslaught of immature jabs, Scott continued working on his list of tools and equipment needed for his research.

  Scott didn’t have the heart to ask Cody to leave, and besides . . . Cody was a form of entertainment and really seemed interested in what he was doing. He would watch intently as Scott scanned the Internet for equipment normally only seen on off the wall Sci-Fi and horror shows.

  Cody and Scott were polar opposites in every way. Cody was short with the body of a panda bear—and his eyes were so squinty that people sometimes wondered how he could peer through those subtle slits well enough to see where he was walking.

  Due to Scott’s tall athletic frame, they looked like Laurel and Hardy when they stood side by side. Cody was chatty, and Scott was more the silent type. Cody loathed the idea of marriage, while Scott daydreamed about the future Mrs. Scott Andrew. Cody was a bit of a slob, where Scott needed things to be organized and sanitary. Somehow despite their differences, they managed to be good friends, and his loyalty was a trait Scott greatly admired.

  “Cody, I can see that you are interested in what I’m doing. You’re welcome to join me you know. After all, I need an assistant to carry all of this equipment.”

  “Gee Scott! That sounds like a heck of a deal! I could also bathe you, feed you, and sing you to sleep. How does that sound?”

  “Hmmmmm . . . I’ll accept your offer on one condition— and this may be a deal breaker for you. There will be no bathing of one another. I like you, but not that much.” Scott continued, “Your singing voice, as beautifully soothing as it is, is not something I desire to go to sleep to. Ever. I’d let you feed me, but I know where your hands have been, and I know you’re not one to take personal hygiene seriously, so no thank you. You can however, assist me in carrying and setting up the equipment. Who knows? You might witness history in the making?”

  “You had me at, hmmmmm . . . “ Cody replied.

  Scott had wanted Cody to join the mission despite some of his annoying shortcomings. He was entering into the unknown, while delving into his haunted past, so Scott wanted a companion that would keep him balanced with humor and skepticism. AND he needed help carrying all of the equipment.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Scott’s shipment of paranormal toys had arrived, and in the time it took to reach its destination, he was able to plan out his first mission.

  The goal was to revisit his past, and figure out why certain things had paid him an unwelcome visit.

  There were so many unanswered questions: what exactly was trying to communicate with him? Why he was able to see and experience things so few people ever do?

  One thing was for certain; whatever it was made him feel uneasy, so Scott knew it wasn’t anything good
.

  If he could take all of the pieces, and put them together like a puzzle, everything would become clear. He needed to know what haunted him all those years, and why.

  Whirling winds accompanied Scott and Cody during the long drive to Scott’s childhood home—the home where the apocalyptic horse stared him down with only death in its eyes.

  Many years had gone by since Scott had seen the place he called home. Seventeen years to be exact. Not knowing what to expect, the nerves in his stomach started to awaken, as if he had eaten a bowl of tacks. The closer they got to the house, the more his stomach knotted up and the harder his grip on the steering wheel.

  Entering the neighborhood, there was a feeling of inertness. The paint on the barely standing structures was faded and peeling off, windows were almost nonexistent, and doors were hanging by their hinges. It was as if they had entered a ghost town.

  Scott remembered the homes being archaic while growing up, and half of the homes were vacant, but he never expected the decay that assaulted his senses as he drove through what was once his happy neighborhood.

  Recognizing certain landmarks, such as the old red school house that still sat in the middle of a field just off Raven Street, told Scott that they were just blocks away from their destination.

  Cape Way, the street where his old home still rested, was in site. Turning left on to the street, Scott could see his house off in the distance. Not as decrepit as some of the other homes, but still severely weathered, as if it had been sitting unoccupied for a hundred years.

  Staring in the front window as he pulled up, Scott tried to detect any signs of life; he wasn’t certain if the home was abandoned like the rest, and he wanted to be sure before possibly trespassing.

  Dust settled around his silver ’68 Plymouth Roadrunner after coming to a stop in front of 1300 Cape Way.

  Parked adjacent to the house, Cody and Scott continued to gaze into the windows for signs of movement, or instability within the anatomy of the lifeless cold structure.